Tic Toc
by Dragonflae
Summary: He was aging, and aging meant dying. He wouldn't die. He would find her. He had to find her...before the light went out entirely.


Chapter One

I never liked the damn book, okay? I only read it once, and I was like, ten when I did. It just wasn't something that appealed to me. Even that stupid cartoony version didn't strike a chord. At ten, I would have much rather been watching a late-night crime show or one of those Saturday morning horror flicks than the cheesy princess stuff that the other girls at the orphanage loved so much.

Guess I should introduce myself, huh? My name's Jady. That's the sum of my first and last name combined. I will never, ever, EVER let on to what my middle name is. Never in a million years. In fact, I hate my other two names, too. They simply don't fit me.

I'm not explaining myself any further than that.

Back to the story, I never liked the book. Maybe at ten, I was too little to really get interested in a book that had been written a hundred or so years ago. A girl at school had tried to make me re-read it last year, but I only got a chapter in before chucking it.

I never figured I'd end up living a fairy tale. Why bother read what could be construed as an instruction manual on how to survive one?

Fairies, mermaids, magic islands…that shit didn't happen in real life. That's why it's called real life. It sucks.

I was never one to dwell on fairytales, anyways. I grew up in a trashy foster home in the middle of New York City. I had no idea where I came from, who I was, why my parents didn't want me…few kids did. There were those lucky enough to have a letter or something that their folks left with them to read when they got older. Didn't happen very often. Most of us were either born from a sperm-dumpster of a mother and a high school jock or rape victims who couldn't abort. There's actually this one kid here that's a failed abortion. His name's Davon, and he's missing an arm.

I really should count myself lucky. At least my mom didn't try to kill me.

Anyways, today I've been walking around town aimlessly. It's summer, and the orphanage gives us older kids a later curfew and permission to go around town, as long as we get back in time for bed.

I pushed my hair out of my eyes, catching a glimpse of myself in a dirty window of an abandoned building. My favorite hangout spot's this one block that burned down a couple years back. Nobody really goes there unless they're in a gang or criminals or some shit. You can imagine I've had some close encounters.

My hair's light brown, and sloppily cut up like a guy's would be. The kid who did the haircut had attempted to give me bangs, but had failed miserably. I ended up with bangs covering most of my forehead, but with a weird slope that gets in my eyes a lot. My eyes are nothing special…just a plain, dark brown.

They remind me of poop.

There's a light breeze coming from one side of the street. It feels nice, thanks to it being so god damned hot that day.

I hate summer, sometimes. I don't really have any friends to hang out with, and there's no homework to at least keep my brain busy.

The main thing I do is draw.

I've got a special pack with my sketchbook and pens inside of it. It's got a certain section for each pen, and a couple compartments that I keep my lip balm and money in. I'm pretty good, I guess. Good enough to sell sketches to passers by during the school day.

During the summer, however, my art goes from copies of photos people send me from their cell phones and art projects to depressing images of burnt-out kitchens, road-kill animals and hobos that sleep next to dumpsters, the liquor they blow their money on still close at hand.

Yeah, you can tell I'm a normal kid.

I still don't like that book.

When I look up, the sun's setting. I should head back before it gets dark, if I want some time to eat and watch TV before bed. The moon's already out in the opposite half of the sky, seeming to glare at the sun and yell at it to hurry up and go down.

There're these two little stars that I can already see. I can't really say where they are on paper, since I don't know the first thing about astronomy or astrology or whatever the fuck it's called.

Unfortunately, I also notice that as I watch the sky, someone else is watching me.

I never figure out who it is. I just know he/she/it is my stalker.

I turn sharply, attempting to catch their face. They've been following me for about a week, now. I don't know what they think they're doing. Maybe they're trying to rape me? Kill me? Cut me into tiny pieces and store them in their fridge like that freak from the news?

Whatever.

Whoever they are, they're not the tallest person around.

Unless they have a gun—which I highly doubt, otherwise they'd probably have made a move by now—they won't lay a hand on me. I've got a six inch pocketknife tucked into my shirt, and damn straight I know how to use it.

"Hey!" I call out, aggravated. This isn't the first time I've spoken to them. I think it's either a girl or a little kid, cuz when they breath I can hear their voice a little bit.

"Wouldja stop freakin' following me? I oughta shank you!" I didn't even know what 'shank' meant, personally. I just knew it sounded rude and threatening. I also would have cussed, but I didn't want to, in case it really _was _a little kid. It could have been Mikey, for all I know. He's this eight year old from the orphanage that thinks I'm his dead sister. His family died in a car wreck some time ago, and he's still in denial.

Now that I think about it, it probably _was _Mikey. I saw a shadow half duck, half cower behind a wall. There was this little spark, like a flashlight. I didn't know if Mikey owned a flashlight, but he could have borrowed or even stolen one if he'd had the chance.

I softened my tone a little, just to lure him out. After I did, I really _would _shank his creepy little ass.

"Mikey, c'mon. I know it's you. Why're you followin' me, kid? I thought you were hanging out with Miss Aubrey today."

There was a pause, then a mumble. The voice was deeper than I expected. Not a little kid's, at least, but still pre-puberty, if it was a guy.

"…not Mikey…"

I frown, taking a step closer and unconsciously touching the knife hidden in my clothing. I wasn't taking any chances.

"…well…if you're not Mikey…then who are you?" As I approached, I heard the person scrambling backwards. Er, maybe it was backwards. There's not much of a way to tell which direction a scramble is heading in. There was another flash of light, brighter than last time. I wondered why someone'd need a flashlight in the day time. Maybe they were waiting for it to get dark...But if that was so, why wander around at night? Were they up to something?

I tug my knife out, open it silently and slip it behind my back.

"…not telling." The voice behind the wall said. I'm pretty sure it's a boy by now; either a boy or a really butch girl. There was also a slight tease to the words, as if the person were playing with me.

I didn't like that at all.

"If you're gonna follow me around town for a fucking week, I at least wanna know who you are." I forgot my reasons not to cuss. City kids come outta their mothers cussing, anyways.

"That's not the point," he replies. Okay, definitely a guy by now. I can tell he's almost hit puberty.

There's a window in the side of the building, and another on the wall he's behind. I can just barely see him. He's about my height, maybe an inch or so shorter, and looks like he's in eighth or ninth grade.

I'm in tenth.

"LOOK, you fuck!" I lose my cool. "Stay the fucking hell away from me or I swear to God I'm going to the cops. You little fucking prick, I should cut your dick off and feed it to your whore of a momma!"

Okay, a little harsh, but I'm pissy. No guy wants to mess with a girl on her period. The kid's gotta learn that some time or another.

I hear him laugh. Oh, you little _bastard. _Who does he think he is, laughing at me? I'll show him. I mentally start prepping my nastiest words, and I hold my knife above my head like I'm some kind of psycho. I jump out in front of him with my best I'm-gonna-tear-you-a-brand-new-ass-hole face, knowing from experience in front of a mirror that I'm scary enough when I wanna be.

But the son of a bitch is _gone._

Not only is he gone, it's a _dead end_. It's closed off.

There's no where he could have gone but up, and there ain't a ladder in sight.

As I said before, I hate that book.


End file.
